VII. Yet must I think less wildly --I have thought A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame : VIII. Something too much of this :-but now 'tis past, And the spell closes with its silent seal. Long absent HAROLD re-appears at last ; He of the breast which fain no more would feel, Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but ne'er heal; Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him In soul and aspect as in age: years steal Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim. IX. His had been quaff'd too quickly, and he found Still round him clung invisibly a chain Which gall'd for ever, fettering though unseen, And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with pain, Which pined although it spoke not, and grew keen, Entering with every step he took through many a scene. X. Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's hand. XI. But who can view the ripen'd rose, nor seek To wear it who can curiously behold The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's cheek, On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond prime. XII. But soon he knew himself the most unfit Of men to herd with Man; with whom he held His thoughts to others, though his soul was quell'd He would not yield dominion of his mind XIII. Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends; Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his home ; He had the passion and the power to roam; The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, A mutual language, clearer than the tome Of his land's tongue, which he would oft forsake For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the lake. XIV. Like the Chaldean, he could watch the stars, Till he had peopled them with beings bright As their own beams; and earth, and earth-born jars, And human frailties, were forgotten quite : Could he have kept his spirit to that flight To which it mounts, as if to break the link That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us to its brink. XV. But in Man's dwellings he became a thing Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat. XVI. Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, With nought of hope left, but with less of gloom ; The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this side the tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume, Which, though 'twere wild,-as on the plunder'd wreek With draughts intemperate on the sinking deck,— Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forebore to check. Stop-for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! Thou first and last of fields! king-making Victory? |